


Howl, howl, reach me inside

by Cloudnine101



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Dark, Incest, M/M, Short, Soulless Sam Winchester, Uncertainty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2832518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'On the bed next to him, Dean sleeps, breaths rising and falling rapidly, eyelashes fluttering on bronzed cheeks, every imperfection illuminated by lightning. It's the way it's always been, really.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Howl, howl, reach me inside

Around the motel, the storm blows up. The wind howls; thunder rolls; tree branches crash together, in a deafening cacophony. Lights play across the ceiling of Sam's room; he watches them gladly, pleased by the distraction. He would try counting sheep, but that never really seems to work, and Dean says it's bull anyway. He used to do it, but then Dean told him to stop, so he did. He wonders how many things he's stopped, since he returned to Dean. Somehow, he always knew he would.

He wonders how the world might have been different, if he'd stayed in Harvard, and married Jess, and bought a house. He wonders if he'd have taken the dog for a walk, and the kids to school, and picked up the papers, and changed diapers, and kissed Jess on the cheek in the evenings. He wonders if he'd have missed Dean, at all. He wonders if Dean would've come round, sometimes, and they'd have done the things brothers are supposed to do - bickering and bowling, not blood sports and hot, heady breaths.

He wonders if he'd miss the danger; the excitement; the thrill that comes with running, standing on the edge of the precipice. He wonders if his chest would be so hollow, if he still had his soul. He wonders if he's doing the right thing, for once in his goddamned life. On the bed next to him, Dean sleeps, breaths rising and falling rapidly, eyelashes fluttering on bronzed cheeks, every imperfection illuminated by lightning. It's the way it's always been, really.

He's having a nightmare, but Sam can't bring himself to do anything but watch; simply lie there, and enjoy the show, and try to ignore the ache for...something. Something he can't - won't - name. Something primal, and fierce, and deep, that sits just above his heart - and every time Dean drags him out of the way of a stinger, or grunts at him to stay back, or laughs with him in the Impala, it stirs. And when Dean's drunk and pliant, and his face is contorted in a sneer; and when Dean's looking down at him, pity in his eyes, hope gone; and when they're alone together, it burns.

Sam wants to wake him, now - wants to run hands over his chest, and grin at him in the dim light, and say: "Dean. Dean. My Dean." And Dean would let him - Sam knows it, knows it deep inside his heart. Because - no matter how much they try to hide it - they're meant for each other. They belong together. It's destiny - a destiny neither of them can run from, however much they'd like to. Sam wants to wake him, now. He lies still.

The storm rages on.


End file.
